


Gamalost

by opposablethumbs, whatthefoucault



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Cheese, Feelings, Food, M/M, Sakaar (Marvel), This was supposed to be crack, Thor: Ragnarok (2017), frostmaster, opposablethumbs is very demanding, sexual camembert, shameless hedonism, sharing food, whatthefoucault secretly wants to write cookbooks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 06:22:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13207842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opposablethumbs/pseuds/opposablethumbs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault
Summary: In which the Grandmaster has found the right companion with whom to share one of his very favourite things.orWhen Loki falls out of the sky and into the Grandmaster’s lap, he gets everything he hopes for and more. The more comes in the form of cheese. A lot of cheese.





	Gamalost

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note from whatthefoucault: If I’m gonna fall headfirst down a new shippy rabbit hole, I guess I’m dragging opposablethumbs right down with me.
> 
> Author's Note from opposablethumbs: After nearly a decade as friends, whatthefoucault and I have finally come together in our great passion: cheese.
> 
> Author's Note from the both of us: special thanks to our beta [nursedarry](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nursedarry) for your invaluable input and kind words!

“Hey stardust, would you mind breaking me off a piece of that crispbread?” asked the Grandmaster. It was almost purely the work of gravity drawing the knife through the small, bloomy round, so ripe that its insides started to push outward as soon as the slice was made, flowing languorously onto the board like precious white lava. “This is, oh wow, this is a seriously, seriously runny camembert. Wow.”

“Mm-hmm,” Loki agreed, breaking off a shard of crisp rye from the round.

The Grandmaster felt an undeniable spark, a flutter as his fingertips brushed oh-so-briefly against Loki’s. He gratefully accepted the bread, applying a thick smear of the soft cheese. The kindling was lit.

The pillowy bloom of the rind surrendered almost immediately, giving way to the smooth, almost liquid centre. If the contrast between the melting, yielding camembert and the sharp, dry crispbread was divine, then the flavour was nearly orgasmic, redolent of butter, truffles, and hay, blanketing his tongue. He adjusted the front of his trousers, just to be safe.

“Here, try some of this.” He offered a piece to Loki, whose eyes fluttered shut with bliss, letting out a low hum of approval. He collapsed slowly down into the cushions that bolstered him against the plush velvet chaise longue, flexing his toes with almost feline grace.

“Luscious,” said Loki, swiping the last of his portion into his mouth. “I’m impressed.”

“Yeah, that’s, uhh, that’s a, that’s a pretty good camembert,” the Grandmaster agreed, tempted to dive in for seconds, but keen to try the next. “You didn’t think I was going to serve any old cheese, did you?”

“Not for a second,” Loki smiled, idly surveying the board. “This is an awful lot of cheese for two people to get through. I’m not complaining.”

The Grandmaster did not do cheese boards by halves: before them was a generous spread of runny camembert and eighteen-month-old comté, creamy burrata and deep, dark mimolette, waxy-edged manchego and soft, fresh goat’s cheese drizzled with wildflower honey. Alongside the cheeses sat a branch of blushing grapes, a fan of thinly sliced persimmon, a few rounds of crispbread, a scattering of smoked almonds, and a little rectangle of jewel-like quince paste. Loki sucked a grape into his mouth with a quiet pop. The Grandmaster blushed. The board games they had occupied themselves with for the last however many weeks it had been were all highly entertaining, sometimes illuminating experiences, but a cheeseboard? Well, that was one giant leap into the sensual world.

This was a new kind of longing to the Grandmaster: he had, for a very long time, been quite content to resign himself to an eternity of uninhibited and extremely inventive group sex with an endless array of enthusiastic and highly athletic partners, but then this fellow was escorted by security into his life, and he knew, without knowing quite how he knew, that this one was something very special indeed. It was as though there was a kind of magic to him: not the magic he had tried to use to cheat at Pictionary, which was admittedly pretty cute, but rather an unfamiliar but altogether comforting hum that warmed him whenever Loki was in the room. Could it be that En Dwi Gast, the Grandmaster himself, ancient and eternal, had at long last fallen in love?

Maybe, he thought, or perhaps it was the camembert talking. Maybe that was a question for Future Grandmaster, when he no longer had a cheese board in front of him.

****

Falling from the sky onto a galactic garbage planet had not been on Loki’s to-do list. However, were he to have to do it again, at least the planet of Sakaar had good cheese.

Indeed, seldom had he ever encountered such a bountiful selection as the one before him. Breakfast meats were all well and good, but very few things set Loki’s mouth watering like sight of a knife dripping with molten camembert. And at the end of this particular knife, balanced in immaculately manicured fingers, was the man they called The Grandmaster.

Taking the last of the offered cheese into his mouth with a clever curl of his tongue, he murmured, “luscious,” and watched his companion’s eyes widen.

Generous to his friends and brutal to his enemies, apparently open to many of Loki’s personal favourite pastimes: there was much to admire about the Grandmaster. Would it be too egotistical to say that Loki saw in the Grandmaster a reflection of his own greatness? Perhaps, but Loki had never been one to let ego hold him back.

Casting an eye over the overflowing cheese board set between them, he wondered if it was possible to convince the Grandmaster to feed him each and every one as he had the first. The idea pleased Loki, in part because he enjoyed being doted on, but also… he enjoyed who was doting on him. There was something special about his benefactor.  
Alluring. One might even go so far as to say arousing. Loki smirked at the thought and plucked a blush-coloured grape from the bunch. He dabbled it into some of the drizzled honey before suckling it into his mouth with an audible ‘pop’.

Of course, there were those who called the Grandmaster a sybarite, a hedonist, or simply ‘crazy’. As though madness were a bad thing. Only fools failed to try everything at least once, and when your brother has ‘jokingly’ trapped you in between realms in retribution for you cutting his hair in his sleep, insanity can help to pass the time. 

So whether the Grandmaster was all of these things or none mattered very little to Loki. To be honest, he was no longer entirely sure what _did_ matter to him. At first it had been escape, and then gaining power. But these last few weeks, as he and the Grandmaster had become closer, those priorities had begun to change. Not that he held any expectations. The… sessions aboard the party ship had been fun, but the Grandmaster had never engaged directly with Loki during them. Oh, his masculinity was not an issue - neither from the Grandmaster’s tastes nor Loki’s ability to switch to a feminine form were that to be advantageous - but something had kept them apart. At least, until now.

He smiled at the Grandmaster and the Grandmaster smiled at him, and Loki took the knife from him. He looked down at the laden board, in particular at the mimolette, and wondered if Sakaar had more to offer than cheese.

****

The mimolette sat in a small round, its stony surface protecting the deep orange within; it had always reminded the Grandmaster of a delicious little moon. Loki sunk the knife through slowly, carefully dislodging a small segment.

“Do you know how mimolette is made?” Loki asked him. He did, but he wanted to hear Loki's telling of the story.

“Go on.” The Grandmaster leaned forward, chin resting on his palm, listening intently.

“Apparently, the crust is formed by these tiny little mites that are allowed to live there,” he explained, turning the little orange wedge over in his hand, running his fingertip across the grey, craggy outer surface. “Instead of spoiling the cheese, they add to its flavour. A perfectly harmonious relationship, don't you think?”

“Wow, I can't decide if that's kind of disgusting or kind of romantic,” replied the Grandmaster.

“Why not both?” suggested Loki. He carefully peeled away the rind with his knife, taking a generous bite of the waxen orange flesh, offering the other half to the Grandmaster.

So, which one of us is the cheese, and which one of us is the mite, the Grandmaster thought, but did not say. Perhaps they could take turns. Or was that too forward? Why was he concerned about being forward all of a sudden? Oh, he thought. _Oh_.

It was not, of course, just the cheese talking after all. So this, after all this time, was what it felt like to fall in love. That was new.

“Oh wow, that is some good cheese,” he declared, mouth still full: distinctly nutty, almost toasty, whispering of caramel.

“Sir, is everything - am I interrupting?”

The voice pulled him out of his caseous reverie just enough to see Topaz standing in the doorway with a look of stern bemusement.

“Hey, Topaz, get in here,” he beckoned her into the room, speaking with his mouth full. “You have _got_ to try this mimolette. This shit is lit.”

“I'm lactose intolerant,” she told him, her expression radiating something between blank disinterest and mild disapproval. Loki shot her a withering glance before pinching off a handful of creamy burrata shreds, tipping his head back, and letting it drip from his fingertips into his mouth.

“Oh _that's_ why you put soy in your coffee,” he said with a slow nod, feigning - as best as he could - a casual air of conviviality, as though he had not just been internally swooning at his companion. “I thought you just liked the taste.”

“Trust me, nobody actually prefers soy in coffee,” she replied, taking her leave of them.

Topaz was wonderful. She had a killer sense of humour, and so wonderfully violent, but it was obvious she did not trust Loki. And fair enough, the Grandmaster supposed, as he licked the sticky remnants of a little square of quince paste from his thumb - it would not be the first time some strange person had attempted to insinuate their way into the Grandmaster's inner circle for their own personal gain. And of course Loki was interested in personal gain, but more than that. Loki was fun. He was challenging. He was surprisingly good at Connect 4. He was currently idly tapping the board, just to watch the way the quince quivered in response. He was not unlike the goat's cheese: rolled in ash, dripping with honey, and a little sharp, but bright and fair and soft as well.

That, and the fact that the Grandmaster felt like a new star was fizzing to life deep within him every time he caught a glimpse of Loki smiling. Oh boy.

****

“Can I ask you a question?” asked the Grandmaster, as the door clicked closed.

Loki turned an interested eye and a raised eyebrow on the Grandmaster. “Is it about the mimolette?” he asked. “Or are we moving on to the manchego?”

The Grandmaster’s brow furrowed for a second before his nose twitched and a curiously bashful smile broke free. He reached for a piece of the manchego, plucking at the ivory flesh with his fingers and lapping it down. His eyes fluttered briefly closed, and a curling smile lifted the corners of his lips.

Loki watched him: the performance in his every action, and yet without deception in any. His face, especially, was so open and expressive. Loki had grown quite… fond of it already, finding himself familiar with each line and curve, the eccentric paint that drew attention to the Grandmaster’s eyes and glistened over… other features. Loki’s gaze flickered to where a fleck of manchego lingered on those wickedly pliant lips, and his fingers curled into his palm. 

He took a deep breath. “Ask away.”

“Is there… anyone special back home?”

Loki stiffened. It's a trap, his brain told him. He'd been very careful to avoid all mention of Asgard since his arrival, seeing his heritage as more of a potential liability than asset where the Grandmaster was concerned.

As though sensitive to the source of his discomfort, the Grandmaster waved his hand. “Wherever that is,” he added dismissively. 

Home. Loki had not only avoided speaking of Asgard since he landed, almost literally, into the Grandmaster’s lap; he had pushed all thought of it to one side. And, beyond that, came the echoes of Odin’s last lesson: that people were more than a place. It all set the Grandmaster’s question in a painfully bright light that made Loki blink.

“No,” he said. “I don't believe there is.”

The Grandmaster hitched himself upright from among his many cushions and reached out to Loki. Before contact was made, however, a brief hesitation fluttered his fingers. His trajectory altered ever so slightly, and he brought his hand down to pat tentatively at Loki’s bracer. The awkwardness of it made Loki’s stomach squirm and toes curl. He had thought… no, he had hoped, that the Grandmaster was about to take his hand. Warmth still lingered, however, even through his armour; and Loki thought he knew how the manchego must’ve felt, as its edges crumbled in under its own weight. 

Clearing his throat, Loki forced himself to sound at ease. “And you, Grandmaster?” he asked. “Among all your wonders and warriors, does anyone rise as champion above the rest?”

Running his tongue over his lower lip, the Grandmaster finally caught the last smidge of manchego. “Perhaps,” he said softly. “Perhaps.”

Silence reigned between them for a few seconds, heavy and redolent as their repast. At last, Loki could take it no more. 

“So, the comté?” he suggested. 

The Grandmaster nodded his consent. 

****

Comté, right: a prime example of the suppleness and smoothness particular to mountain cheeses, and the Grandmaster did love a good mountain cheese. Cheese was one of those foods that could so perfectly express its terroir; indeed, he could even see by the deep cast of the creamy gold interior that this comté was made from the milk of cows grazing in summer pastures in full blossom.

In his hand was still the memory of a lingering glow from where it had been - all too briefly - on Loki's wrist. He had wanted so much go to him then, to take his hand and twine their fingers tightly together, to let the warmth of that bond speak for him: _whatever else you may be, stardust, you're not alone now._ Almost overstepped a boundary there, the Grandmaster chided himself. Far be it from him to take advantage of a distinguished guest in a moment of obvious emotional vulnerability. But his instinct, in that moment, had been to comfort.

Perhaps the best comfort he could offer, at least for the time being, was food. Whatever pang of loss that had disturbed Loki's thoughts, whatever sorrow or regret, it was not ready to be spoken.

“How many months has this been aged for?” Loki asked him, carefully sectioning out a few rough cubes.

“Eighteen months,” replied the Grandmaster, “so not quite as ancient as I am by cheese standards, but a fine, umm, a very fine vintage.”

“Oh, come now, you're not a bad vintage yourself,” Loki grinned, tossing a portion of cheese into his mouth.

“Aww, geez.” The Grandmaster sputtered inarticulately, ducking his head slightly as if to say, _I know you are, but what am I?_

The Grandmaster _was_ vintage, that at least was true. Or perhaps he was just old. He was old as balls. It was generally pretty great.

He balanced the little golden nugget atop a slender half-moon of persimmon, and popped the whole thing into his mouth at once. Persimmons were a funny sort of fruit: it had not escaped the Grandmaster's attention that they had a most... _intimate_ mouthfeel. As for the comté, it was rounded and earthy, leaving a lingering buttery trace on the tongue.

“Mmm, that's a, that's a seriously buttery comté,” he said, licking the slippery trace of the fruit from his thumb, a little slower and a little more carefully than was strictly necessary. He might have been mistaken, but for a moment, he could have sworn he saw the teensiest flush colour Loki's pale cheeks.

“Quite buttery, yes,” Loki agreed, his gaze fixed intently on the board.

 _Buttery_. There was something about the way Loki said it, the sharp tap of the _t_ , that turned the Grandmaster's insides into a fondue. He had such a way with phonemes. And just like that, the kindling had transformed from smoulder into flame.

“Say buttery again, stardust,” he requested.

“Uhh, buttery,” replied Loki. “Why?”

“I just like hearing the way you say things.”

****

Loki managed not to spit sweet, orange flesh over himself through innate grace and more than a little practice.

“Well, my dearest Grandmaster,” he drawled. “You may live to regret telling me that. Most people believe I’m unable to keep my mouth closed.”

“And what a shame it would be for everyone if you did,” the Grandmaster replied gravely.

That… took Loki aback, more so even than the flirting that had so far taken place. Sincerity was something Loki seldom encountered, especially when it was directed at him.

“You know,” the Grandmaster continued, his gaze dropping to the diminishing cheese board, “there is something else I would be interested to see how you wrapped your tongue around.”

Timed exquisitely with Loki taking a sip from his goblet of wine, neither elegance nor experience was able to stifle the slight snort he made in his effort to swallow. He took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. “Indeed? And what might that be?”

“My name,” the Grandmaster said.

Loki blinked. It had never occurred to him that the Grandmaster went by any other title than, well, Grandmaster. He’d never heard anyone - servants, consorts or intimates - call him anything else. 

The Grandmaster patted the couch beside him, a tilt in his head and a small, hopeful smile on his lips. Curiosity drove Loki to his feet and across the short space that separated them. He took his place at the Grandmaster’s right-hand side, the cushions still warm beneath his buttocks.

The Grandmaster shuffled closer, leaning in slightly. 

“En Dwi,” he said, in a conspiratorial whisper. He looked at Loki.

“En Dwi,” Loki dutifully repeated.

The Grandmaster shook his head. “En Dwi,” he repeated, and indeed Loki could hear a slight nasal flattening in the vowels that was both exotic and somehow familiar. He tried again, but the Grandmaster’s face told him his attempt was inadequate.

“Perhaps ‘Gast’?” the Grandmaster suggested.

Again, there was an inflection in how he said it, a throaty rumble at the start and a hint of an ‘h’ softening the end. Loki attempted to emulate it, the complex and seductive phonetics of it, but the Grandmaster once more scrunched up his nose. 

“Okay, no,” he said, brow coming down in a thoughtful frown. “Try... Jeff.”

A laugh spluttered out of Loki’s mouth. “Is that even your name?” he said.

The Grandmaster shrugged. “Sometimes,” he said. Then he sighed. “We’ll just have to wait until something fits.”

“As your ‘Stardust’ does for me?” Loki asked.

Grandmaster Jeff smiled. “Well, you did fall from the heavens. What else should I call you?”

Loki’s cheeks burned. A conflicted part of his mind said that this being, of which Loki still knew so little, should be a means to an end. Freedom, escape and a universe ripe for the taking. But another voice, one that had been growing louder with each bite of cheese, reminded him that out there he would be alone. The only family he ever knew was gone, and those people who might remain looked to Loki with scorn. And then there was the Grandmaster. En Dwi, Gast, or even ‘Jeff’, here was someone who looked on Loki with favour and… affection, perhaps? Who called him ‘stardust’ as though he were a precious thing, rather than the inevitable traitor Loki’s history suggested he would be. 

He wet his lips and tried to find something to say, but as the Grandmaster’s gaze flicked down to his mouth and then back up to his eyes, he found himself grasping.

“You know,” he began, swallowing to clear the lump in his throat. “We never tried the goat’s cheese.”

Shuffling a little closer again, the Grandmaster let out a brilliant smile. “Oh, I have something better than goat’s cheese for you.”

****

“Tell me,” Loki leaned in, near enough that the Grandmaster could smell a mercurial trace of pine forests and soft mint gardens in his hair, “what, I wonder, could possibly be better than the goat's cheese?”

Loki smiled warmly at him, and the way his pale eyes caught the light was so breathtaking that the Grandmaster nearly forgot his purpose. Regaining his composure as best he could, he rose from the chaise, and dashed off to the other end of the room.

“I can't believe I almost forgot I still had this in my cheese fridge!” he called back to Loki, who looked on with what seemed to be quiet bemusement. He hunted between the bries and the beemsters, past the paneer and the parmigiano, and there it was, tucked safely under its own little glass cloche: a crumbling chunk, the oldest cheese he owned, something he had been saving for a very long time, for a very special occasion.

It was a calculated risk, but the Grandmaster was nothing if not a master of calculation.

“Gamalost,” the Grandmaster told Loki, reclaiming his place beside him, “literally means ‘old cheese’. Brace yourself. It's, uhh, it's got a unique bouquet.”

The cloche was lifted with a flourish, and there it was. There was pungent cheese, and then there was _pungent_. Its perfume was exquisite.

“Well?” asked the Grandmaster. “Whaddya think?”

Loki stared at the little brown half-moon, his expression unreadable. Was he surprised? Confused? Disgusted? The Grandmaster wished he would say something.

“Where did you get this?” he managed eventually, quietly, eyes wide.

“Ah, now let's see,” the Grandmaster replied, trying to cast his mind back to whenever it was the cheese had come into his possession. “I won it in a game of mahjong against my brother. He's, uhh, he's kind of a hoarder. You ready for this?”

Loki nodded, taking a deep breath of anticipation. The Grandmaster carefully cut away a thin slice, laying it gently on the tip of Loki's tongue, before cutting another for himself.

This was no ordinary cheese. It was crumbling, granular, and strange, its flavour almost incomprehensibly complex and layered, and nearly overwhelmingly strong, like old socks and farmland and compost, but in the best possible way.

Loki let out a soft whimper, almost melancholy.

“Does it meet with your approval?” asked the Grandmaster.

“It's just... got so many tasting notes,” he managed eventually, pinching the bridge of his nose. Were his eyes watering? The Grandmaster supposed it _was_ a pungent cheese; on the other hand, one did not reach the ripe old age of mumbletymillion years old without recognising the way some tastes tether themselves inextricably to feelings. “Thank you for sharing it. Sunshine.”

“Sunshine?” questioned the Grandmaster.

“Sunshine,” Loki repeated. “You.”

The Grandmaster blushed, suddenly bashful.

“Or, you know, whatever, it's not, you know... forget it,” Loki continued, feigning casual indifference, but not very well.

“No, no, it's... stardust, it's perfect,” he said, taking Loki's hands in his before he could think better of it. “Thank you. Thank you.”

****

Loki would be lying if he said he liked gamalost, but the earthy and vinegary aftertaste certainly brought back memories. Feasts in the halls of Midgard, back when he and his brother were but boys. His first taste of mead and the scent of fat dripping into fires. The smiles on his mother’s and father’s faces as they opened gifts from their adoring, mortal subjects.

Despite how primitive they were, Loki always held a fondness for the old Norsemen. Their cheese was perhaps the best metaphor for their lives: it tasted like shit but they loved it nonetheless. In all the nine realms, Loki had never found anything that approached the robustness of gamalost. And this piece of Earth, of Loki’s _history_ , could have only come from the same place.

It couldn’t be an accident. The Grandmaster - whatever his true name was - had presented Loki with this taste from his past, yet somehow made it feel like a promise for the future. A future that could be brilliant and radiant and fierce. And if Loki was stardust falling in the night, then that made the Grandmaster...

Sunshine.

The word came out of his mouth.

The Grandmaster’s brow furrowed at the non sequitur.

“You,” Loki explained.

A flush spread across the Grandmaster’s cheeks. Loki tried to backtrack, eloquently of course, but fell short as the Grandmaster took his hands and held them in his own. 

Loki heard the words ‘perfect’ and ‘thank you’ through a haze, enraptured by the Grandmaster’s ever-so-close face. He was no youth by the way that men counted age, but then Loki had stopped counting his own birthdays after he’d turned one thousand as well. 

“Thank you,” the Grandmaster repeated softly and to hell with it, Loki thought, leaning in to press his lips briefly to the Grandmaster’s loosely parted mouth.

When he pulled back, the Grandmaster looked dazed. Then a grin broke out on his face and he lit up. He touched his lip, the smudged streak of blue that divided it, and laughed as he transferred his thumb to Loki’s chin and wiped.

“Suits you,” he said.

“And you,” Loki purred in reply, shifting closer. “So… what now?”

The Grandmaster’s grin widened. “We’re pretty much out of cheese,” he said, “so I’m open to suggestions.”

“I may have a few for later,” Loki said. “But I’m rather too full at the moment for anything more energetic.”

“Hmm, agreed,” said the Grandmaster. “Maybe we could just lie here for a while?” His voice lifted hopefully at the end.

“I’d... like that,” Loki replied, realising it was true. He settled back into the cushions and the Grandmaster joined him, lying on his side with Loki’s bicep supporting his head. He placed his palm flat to Loki’s stomach and pressed the pads of his fingers against the leather.

And at last, Loki was sure. He could have a life on Sakaar. He could be _loved_ on Sakaar. He didn’t need to conquer a realm to rule over a single heart. Thor was gone, Odin was gone. Asgard was gone. Perhaps if it wasn’t, Loki would still have something to prove. And proving himself had always taken priority over what Loki truly wanted. And he found he wanted… this.

He was but minutes into this reverie when a knock sounded at the door. The Grandmaster grumbled, ‘what now,’ into Loki’s collar.

Of course, it was Topaz. She looked down at them. “Sorry to disturb you,” she said, in a way that indicated she had absolutely no feelings - remorseful or otherwise - about disturbing them. “But we’ve had a message on gal-comm.”

“Don’t care. Comfy,” the Grandmaster replied.

“I’m sure,” Topaz replied. “But it’s Scrapper 142. She sounded…”

Loki wasn’t entirely pleased at the way the the Grandmaster came alert at the name, lifting his head. “Excited?” he asked. 

“Drunk,” Topaz corrected. “But then she always sounds drunk.”

“Then why’d you mention it,” the Grandmaster said with a scowl, snuggling back into the crook of Loki’s elbow.

Topaz shrugged. She stared at the Grandmaster.

Jeff cracked open one eye and stared back.

Topaz stared, if that were possible, even harder, and Loki felt the Grandmaster wilt. 

“Fine,” he said, sitting up with a sigh. “Just give me a minute to freshen up.”

A tiny wrinkle in Topaz’s nose marked what she thought of that statement. “I’ll go and nail down anything valuable.”

Once she was gone, Loki made to sit up as well, but the Grandmaster pressed him back amid the cushions with a kiss. “No need,” he said. “I shouldn’t be long.”

“And if you are?” Loki whined. It wasn’t his most regal moment, but the Grandmaster smiled down fondly at him regardless.

“Then come for me,” he murmured, a naughty flash in his eyes.

Loki smirked lazily. “I shall hold you to that,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! All of the cheeses mentioned above should be available at most good cheesemongers, though gamalost is currently produced in small quantities by one commercial dairy in Norway, and as such is rarely found in other countries. However, a [Gamalost Festival](http://www.gamalostfestivalen.no/) is held annually in the municipality of Vik, so adventurous foodies... proceed with caution.
> 
> Or, if you're not ready to travel in the name of interesting cheeses, why not visit the authors [opposablethumbs](http://opposablethumbs-on-ao3.tumblr.com) and [whatthefoucault](http://whatthefoucault.tumblr.com) on our respective blogs and say hello?


End file.
